


All Myself To You

by Madeleine_Ward



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Crossdressing, Domestic Fluff, Don’t copy to another site, First Kiss, Fluff, Gender-fluid Steve Rogers, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-World War II Bucky Barnes, Pre-World War II Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Slow Dancing, So Much Softness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-07-28 12:53:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20064340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madeleine_Ward/pseuds/Madeleine_Ward
Summary: The familiar song winds its way around them as they stand, looking at one another the same way they always have; the way that is 'almost' and 'if only', and there’s more than music waiting in the space between them. Bucky swallows, breathes in deep, and Steve waits for the inevitable step backwards; the turn away that has always followed the step toward.But it doesn’t come.Bucky breathes in deep, and shifts his feet forward, the smallest movement closer.He breathes in deep, and reaches out his hand; palm upwards like the offering it is.“…Will you dance with me, Steve?”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Yiruma's song of the same name, which is soft and beautiful...like Bucky and Steve's love for each other...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stucky Bingo Square: Sharing Clothes

Steve takes the handle of the paintbrush between his lips; keeps it held there gently as he pinches the sides of the freshly painted parchment and holds it up at eye level. He studies the sweeping brushstrokes and the play of color across the page, an autumnal scene brought to life in a windswept flurry of leaves. It feels warm, somehow, the deep oranges and rich reds; warmer than Steve’s felt since the season started to turn. Warm, and unfinished.

He lays it back down on the table and sets the brush to it anew, trailing a crimson blush up the spine of a leaf in the foreground. The fall of familiar footsteps approaching the front door sweeps a blush of its own across the canvas of Steve’s cheekbones.

His eyes flick up as Bucky steps into their kitchen, bringing with him the chill of the evening air and the smell of the docks. The curve of his shoulders and drag of his feet betray the bone-deep exhaustion he’ll never admit to, and Steve won’t ask. _‘How was your day?’_ has fallen to the side of questions that go unasked between them…In these times, they both know what it’s like out there.

“Hey, Buck.” He says instead, setting his brush aside and turning his attention to the person he shares his life with in every way except the ones he wants most. He reigns in the drift of his stare down Bucky’s form as he kicks off his shoes and shucks his jacket, rolling his shoulders against the grip of end-of-day stiffness.

Bucky’s gaze sweeps over the spread of Steve’s art supplies across their dining table; over the landscape taking shape on the paper. “You’ve been painting.” There’s a fondness to the way he says it, like it brings him some measure of comfort to know this is how Steve has spent his afternoon.

The ‘_you’re well enough to be up and painting again’_ goes unsaid.

Steve nods. “It’s not finished…there’s something missing, but I can’t work out what.”

Bucky’s looking at him, at his face, the corners of his mouth upturned slightly. His stare seems to linger on Steve’s mouth; his eyes glinting something Steve doesn’t quite recognize. A moment passes, and Bucky clears his throat.

“…Pretty.” His voice is quiet, a little rough around the edges. He nods once, a slight tilt of his head, and then makes his way down to the bathroom to wash up.

Steve looks down at his painting, something like pride glowing warm in his chest. It _is_ pretty, he thinks. Prettier if it’s something Bucky likes. He starts clearing away his workspace, making room for them to sit at the table together. He gathers up his brushes and brings them to the sink, wincing at the frigid water that trickles from the faucet to rinse the bristles. His eye catches briefly on his reflection in the small kitchen window, and he falters.

The light is dim, but when he casts his gaze up in earnest to the pane of glass, he can see himself clear as day – the same eyes that have always stared back at him, the same stubborn chin and permanently furrowed brow, but his mouth…

His mouth, suddenly, not his own…now tinged with a vibrant streak of red.

He stares; paint-stained lips in striking contrast with the familiar pallor of his skin.

He stares; breath held, heart stumbling.

_Pretty._

* * *

It’s strange, Steve thinks, the way this feels like _him. _Like this has always been a part of him, somewhere in the periphery; as content to rest in the shadows as it now seems to turn its face to the sun. It feels calm, unremarkable…like any other of Steve’s quiet truths.

The soft light of early afternoon filters into the bedroom through threadbare curtains, bathing his hair and skin in faint, warm gold, and he looks at himself in the dust-speckled mirror. Bucky’s nightshirt falls almost to his knees, made for men of greater stature than Steve. Men like Bucky, who wear their strength in the set of their shoulders and the spread of their chest.

The shirt is old and worn thin, and Steve’s eyes trace over the shape of himself beneath it; over the bony ridges of his body, the slight tapering of his waist just below his ribcage. His chest is flat, sunken a little under the collarbones; his shoulders narrow and pointed in the absence of spare flesh. His hip bones jut out in sharp arcs, and there’s a fineness to his wrists and hands that make him look, by his own observation, entirely breakable. More breakable than he’s ever felt, but his body has always belied his will. There’s a delicacy to the way he was put together, and he wonders if the hand that made him knew, somehow, that he might one day come to feel all the more whole for it.

He fists the fabric of the shirt at his back; pulls it tight around his waist to fall in a fitted silhouette around him. It creates the barest illusion of curve, but it’s enough to draw a smile to the corners of his lips. He and Bucky haven’t spoken about the comment that was passed a few nights ago, but it continues its loop in Steve’s head nonetheless, warming him from the inside. He stays just like that; just being with this part of himself. Quiet, serene. Himself and one of his reflections.

Until a soft intake of breath sounds at the bedroom doorway.

Steve turns to find Bucky standing on the threshold, unmoving, his eyes travelling in a slow sweep down Steve’s form.

For the first time in Steve’s life, he cannot read what he finds on his best friend’s face.

“I got sent home early…” It sounds almost like an apology when Bucky speaks, voice barely above a whisper. “…They got no more work for me today.”

Steve is rooted to the spot; cheeks burning. He searches for a word, an explanation, but he comes up empty. He’s got nothing; nothing but the too-loud surge of his own pulse in his ears and the sudden weight of insecurity twisting in his gut. His gaze drops to his feet.

Bucky’s shirt is soft against his skin. It’s soft, and it smells like Bucky, and there isn’t a single reason Steve should be wearing it.

Bucky steps towards him, cautious and measured. He bends to pick up Steve’s belt from the tangle of discarded clothes on the floor, and moves to stand behind Steve at the mirror. He’s warm, always warm by the end of his shift; Steve can feel it radiating from him where he stands at his back.

Bucky’s hands pass tentatively around his waist, and the breath Steve hadn’t realized he was holding leaves him all at once.

“I’ve seen girls wearing it like this…” Bucky speaks softly, without inflection, fixing the belt around Steve’s waist; fixing the fabric – _his _shirt – into shape.

Steve can’t seem to draw in air past the tightness in his chest, can’t breathe against the heavy kick of his heart behind his ribs. “Buck…” He begins, knowing very well it’s a sentence he can’t finish. He swallows hard, too aware of Bucky’s body behind him.

When he doesn’t continue, Bucky asks simply, quietly, “…You feel right, like this?”

Steve can only nod, eyes glued to the floor.

Bucky breathes a hushed sigh, and Steve thinks he can feel it against the back of his neck.

“…Then there ain’t nothing to explain, Stevie.”

Steve blinks against pin-prick tears. He forces himself to lift his eyes, to seek out Bucky’s gaze in the mirror. When he finds it, he’s met with the same openness that’s always been there.

For a moment that seems to stretch, warm and comforting like the sun’s rays across the floor, Bucky’s fingertips stay right where they are - resting at Steve’s waist, the gentlest touch.

* * *

When Steve awakes the following day, he does so to find Bucky has long since left for work.

Bucky's not there, but his nightshirt is - folded, waiting, at the foot of Steve's bed. 


	2. Chapter 2

There’s always been an ease to the way they move around each other, the kind that speaks of a lifetime of being part of each other’s orbit. The pull of gravity that has always existed between them, no less real for all it goes unacknowledged, remains as it has always been – a constant and all-enduring force.

Steve finds peace in his many reflections, and Bucky’s smile holds all the same warmth regardless of which one he’s met with at the end of the day. It’s not something they talk about, because there’s nothing to be said – Steve wears pants; Steve wears Bucky’s shirts cinched at the waist; Steve wears his determination in the set of his jaw and stains his lips pink when he feels like it, and it’s all one and the same.

Sometimes, he thinks he can feel Bucky’s eyes on him; something like the touch of sunlight on bare skin. He feels the way it washes over him, warm and weightless, just _ seeing_.

Sometimes, Steve meets his stare; smiles at him because he can’t help it.

Sometimes, he closes his eyes altogether, and just basks in it.

* * *

The sun is low in the sky by the time Bucky arrives home. It’s been a cold day, the kind that seems to have winter at its heels even though fall’s song is only half-sung, but the chill wrapping its way around Steve’s bones loses some of its bite when Bucky walks in.

There’s something in the set of his mouth, closer to a smile than anything Steve has come to expect on him at the end of a shift, and he carries himself with a buoyancy that belies the day’s hours of physical labour. Tucked under his arm, a fold of blue sits in contrast against the grime-specked grey of his shirt.

There’s a current of almost-nerves in the way Bucky greets him; eyes lit up as he makes his way over to the couch where Steve is curled, book in hand. He takes in a breath, seeming to steady himself as he motions for Steve to make room. “Got something for you...” The faintest hint of colour rises in his cheeks as he settles in next to Steve and holds out a soft drape of blue fabric. 

Steve thinks he knows before he takes it from Bucky’s grasp and lets it unfold in his hands; something ringing familiar even before he holds it up and looks at it in earnest, and it’s no less beautiful for it. He feels it right there in his chest, right where he’s sure his heart is, as his gaze drifts over the lace-trimmed neckline, the dulled pearl buttons running down the front, the soft pleats of the skirt. For a moment, he forgets to breathe.

“I stopped at Ma’s on the way home,” Bucky ventures, something like uncertainty colouring his words, “Becca was putting out some things for goodwill, and I saw _ that, _ and I thought, you know…” Bucky gestures at the dress, and then at Steve’s eyes. “…Same.”

Steve just stares; at the dress, at Bucky. He’s certain his eyes have never been quite _ this _ blue, but his smile reaches them just the same.

“…Is it okay, that I did this?” Bucky asks, searching Steve’s face.

Steve nods, a sigh almost like a laugh escaping his lips. “Yeah, Bucky, it’s okay. Better than okay.”

And then Bucky is smiling too, looking at Steve looking at the dress, and the house is warmer than it’s been in weeks. “You gonna try it on?”

Steve is halfway out of the room before the question has left Bucky’s lips.

* * *

The sleeves are short, skirt falling to knee-length, waistline drawing in at Steve’s middle like it could have been made for him. It’s everything soft and delicate, and Steve doesn’t know which is more to thank for the joy swelling within him – the dress itself, or the fact that Bucky is so intimately familiar with the blue of his eyes that he knew it the moment he saw it reflected in something else. 

He stands at the bedroom mirror, drinking in the softened angles of himself, feeling the unfamiliar swish of fabric against his legs as he turns from one side to the other.

The night air bites at the exposed skin of his arms and legs, and he couldn’t care less.

The drift of music down the hallway draws him back out to the living room, where he finds Bucky standing at the radio, finessing the temperamental dial until the melody rings clear. He can’t help but smile as Bucky moves to the sounds of the band; brass and strings and keys setting an easy rhythm to his feet. It’s a pleasure in itself, watching the way Bucky responds to music; his whole being seeming to light up and relax into itself all at once, so at home in the play of notes and words. Steve could watch him in that calm, weightless joy all night.

“I like this song,” Steve says quietly, hearing the fondness in his own voice. Bucky turns to look at him, his face every bit as contented as Steve expected to find, and his smile only grows as he takes in the sight of Steve. 

Bucky looks him over with bright eyes, and Steve can feel the colour seeping into his cheeks.

“Fits pretty good…” He offers up with a shrug, running his hands down the fitted waistline and worrying at one of the buttons that’s starting to come loose.

Bucky smiles, closing the distance between them with unhurried steps. “Thought it would.”

The familiar song winds its way around them as they stand, looking at one another the same way they always have; the way that is _ almost _ and _ if only_, and there’s more than music waiting in the space between them. Bucky swallows, breathes in deep, and Steve waits for the inevitable step backwards; the turn away that has always followed the step toward.

But it doesn’t come.

Bucky breathes in deep, and shifts his feet forward, the smallest movement closer.

He breathes in deep, and reaches out his hand; palm upwards like the offering it is.

“…Will you dance with me, Steve?”

Steve’s heart feels set to jump out from behind his ribs and launch itself at Bucky. He thinks he’s smiling, _ hopes _ he is, but he’s not sure of much beyond the feeling of finally laying his hand in Bucky’s open, waiting palm. He wonders if Bucky can feel the frantic surge of his pulse where their hands meet.

“You know I got two left feet.” He inches closer, raising his free hand to settle on Bucky’s shoulder. His eyeline sits level with Bucky’s collarbone, and for what might be the first time in his life, he’s content for it to stay there.

“I know,” Bucky says, beginning to lead them all the same in a measured shuffle of feet.

The song is slow, and Bucky’s hand rests gently at the small of Steve’s back as they sway in the fading light of early evening. It’s easy, Steve thinks; easier than it had seemed all those years that he’d watched from the side lines at dance halls, too afraid of putting a foot wrong to even try. He’d always felt so out of step, as if his body couldn’t interpret what the music wanted from it. But then, he’d never had _ this _ – the careful pull of Bucky’s body turning them in slow circles; Bucky’s warm hand, and whispered encouragements, and soft laughter as Steve steps again and again on his toes. Bucky is a song Steve has been dancing to his whole life... _ this, _ he couldn’t get wrong if he tried.

There’s no conscious thought to the way he leans in, shifts his hand higher along the ridge of Bucky’s shoulder; no force beyond the simple gravity of _ them _, the very same that has Bucky tilting his head down to rest his cheek against Steve’s temple. The hand at Steve’s back pulls him in closer, and Steve lets his eyes drift shut; lets the words of the song curl around him as Bucky sings along softly under his breath.

It doesn’t even occur to Steve that he’s brushing the tips of his fingers slowly back and forth across the back of Bucky’s neck until Bucky sighs; tips his head further forward to make room for the drift of Steve’s touch between his shirt collar and his hairline. His lips nestle close against Steve’s ear, and Steve only just hears it over the thump of his heart when Bucky whispers “…what are we, Steve?”

Steve’s heart sits high in his throat, and he tries to swallow it back down; tries to find words for an answer that’s only half his to give. He’s been asking the same question of himself for years, and come up blank every time. _ Everything, _ he could say, _ we’re everything, Buck. Every good thing that’s ever been or ever will be, is you and me. _ It’s the truth, and yet somehow still so far from it. How do you define this, what they’ve become to each other? There’s no way to distil what happens way down in his soul when Bucky looks at him like he’s seeing his whole life ahead of him. But maybe that’s answer enough.

He leans back, tilting his face up to seek out Bucky’s eyes.

“If there’s a word for it, I ain’t heard it yet…” he sighs, his hand at the back of Bucky’s neck slipping forward to cradle his jaw, “…but I want it, Bucky. Whatever it is.”

His thumb brushes softly across Bucky’s cheekbone, and Bucky stills the movement of their feet. Their faces are close, and Bucky’s cheek flushes against Steve’s palm.

He pulls in Steve’s hand that he’s holding and presses it to his chest; flattens it against the unwavering beat behind his breastbone. “You have it, Steve…” he says simply, as if it were never a question at all, “…you always had it.”

And _ yes, _ Steve thinks, _ of course I have, _ because isn’t this just another truth he’s always kept tucked away, for fear of losing it. His eyes fall to Bucky’s lips, as they have a hundred times before, and this time he lets them stay there. Bucky’s hands settle on his waist, his forehead resting against Steve’s; heart throwing itself over and over against Steve’s palm, insistent and impatient and _ yes, I’m yours _.

Steve raises up on the tips of his toes, and waits there in that _ almost_; nose nudging gently against Bucky’s, eyes closed, pulse racing. Bucky breathes a sigh that ghosts soft and warm over Steve’s lips, so close to his own, and when Steve feels the unmistakable upturning of a smile beneath his hand at Bucky’s cheek, there’s nothing left to hold out for. 

He presses his lips against Bucky’s, against that smile that’s always brightest when directed at him, and he feels it right down in his cells; like he was made up of this at the very beginning, and has spent his whole life making his way back to it without even knowing it.

He kisses Bucky, joyous and unhurried and everything it was always going to be.

And, just as it was always going to be, Bucky kisses him back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song they dance to is 'Always In My Heart' by Jimmy Dorsey. Listen to it so your heart can swell as much as mine did at the thought of them holding each other while it plays...
> 
> UPDATE: I have been working on the 3rd chapter of this story since last August, and it is just not happening for me! In the interest of my sanity, I have to mark this work as complete at this point. If the words for the next part of the story ever find me, I'll add it as a follow up story! x


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